Young Writers Society

The pedestrian turned the corner and walked down the pathway, not knowing anyone was nearby. It was dark, and the man's eyes were focused straight ahead. He didn't see the figure hiding in one of the doorways, nor did he see her bound from her position onto the overhang.

Her steps were light and quick, barely shifting her weight with every glide she made. No one saw her, no one heard her, no one noticed the shadow bounding the rooftops. During her journey, she took a split second to hop down lightly onto the ground, swipe a hotdog from the stand from right under the seller's nose, and back onto her track up top. He'd never notice. Well, maybe when he took inventory, but it was his loss. Not hers.

"You're late."

His scraggly voice was hardly meant for whispers. She was surprised no one could hear him from across town, his voice was so rough. But he was the boss; she learned enough times who the boss was.

"Hand it over."

No one could tell she even bothered to pull the item out of her cloak. The object was draped in a purple felt cloth, but the man and his cronies knew exactly what it was. She could watch clearly as he swiped it from her hand and inspected the item, though it happened only too briefly to the normal eye.

"You've done well." He handed the covered item to his lefthand man, who quickly pocketed it into his cloak. "You will never be more than a simple thief, however. Good evening, Tania Storch."

She watched them turn and bound for their departure, leaving her alone on the roof. Tania didn't budge. Her eyes were trained on the target. An entire minute passed by before Tania decided she was alone. From her cloak, she pulled out what appeared to be the exact same object -- felt cloth and all. Her smooth voice floated into the cool night air, a sweet compliment of the boss'.

"Enjoy your hotdog."

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Aaron Goldsmith

He sat patiently in Math class waiting for Lia to make her move. He likes her blonde flowy hair, warm smile and blue eyes. She usually asks him for help but in a flirty voice. She is nicer to him than she is to the other guys. He doesnt know how to ask her or ashley out. Ashley is the girl he met in cooking class. He thinks she is really kind but a little on the heavy side.
After class, he walked up to Lia in the hallway and asked her would you like to go to a museum and eat a candlelit dinner next to a lake?" He ran out of breath so fast.
"Not interested." She answered.
"Why not?" He asked.
"Sorry but you seem too nice for me." She had answered.
He was speechless. He didnt see that coming.
On his way home he saw ashley.
"Hi. How are you today? She came up to him.
Im doing good you? He answered
"Want to go out tonight?" She let out.
"Sure how about we stay at my place."
"I was hoping for a romantic date! Wow you are a loser that is sex obsessed!"

Brianna Adamsky

Brianna Adamsky was sort of boring. At least, that's what she thought. Her family was Swedish--all of them. They were all blue-eyed blondes and so was she. Her cousins were called siblings and anyone of them her age that was approximately five feet into her personal space caused calls of, "Oh my gosh, Bri! I didn't know you had a twin!"
It was really annoying.
So she told Thomas, one of said cousins, who had one special genetic flaw, "You could just grow a beard--a red beard! That'd be awesome." See, his facial hair--it came in red.
"How about you?"
She crossed her eyes at him.
"Oh come on, that's a joke. You're beautiful. Athletic and your eyes are like that water we used to swim in, you know, in February or whatever and everyone thought we were crazy, oh--and remember the sea eagles?"
"I look like a sea eagle?"
Thomas cocked his head. "Sort of. Your hair looks more like shredded gold raw silk than feathers, though."
"Thank you?"

Raphael King

The name's King. Raphael King. The young man sighed and scratched the thought out of his head, sitting against the garage door of 56 Heinrich Street. The quiet street suited him; he was a quiet person.

He shifted a bit, feeling the bones in his back crack, and ran a hand through his dark hair. Dark as night, his parents said, even though it wasn't even close to black. It had been dark brown in high school; after college, it looked nearly grey, though that could have been the worried atmosphere that emanated from his every word and movement, tainting his looks again. In college, he had been so constantly harried that he started to look sick, and he was only just regaining his presence of mind.

Hair dark as night and eyes bright as day, open as any book. His roommate had joked - while drunk, of course - that he didn't even need to talk for people to see that he was happy or sad, even if his face didn't show it. His eyes and the terse little movements he made every once in a while were good enough. Terse movements, dark hair, relaxed blue eyes.

He felt like a list. He wasn't a person, wasn't a bunch of feelings shoved roughly into a man-shaped bundle. He was a list of the things people saw and the things they spoke of. Terse movements, dark hair, relaxed blue eyes, and a whole bunch of worry. Maybe it was the worry that got in the way of him making friends; maybe it was the worry that kept him from getting a job, no matter how many places he looked for one.

Maybe it was worry that kept him trapped, sitting in front of his parents' garage, looking out at the world with those bright eyes like nothing mattered. He stood, and it was apparent that his body was still proportioning itself from his time as a gangly teenager, but his steps were quick and fluid. King. Raphael King. A list of things; a list of nothing. He could live with that.

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Solomon Lange

He heaved a plank from the pile with his bare hands and carried it to the structure they were constructing -- all by himself too. While his co-workers were forced to require at least one other set of hands to help, Solomon was a beast. He could do it himself.

He could build the house himself if he wanted.

There were some giggling girls nearby, and Solomon instinctively looked in their direction. He shot them a sexy grin, sending them into more fits of laughter and whispers, before handing the plank up top to the men hammering away there.

"Yo, Lange!"

Solomon turned around at the approaching pair of men carrying their own plank of wood. He helped them hand it up top as the short man who spoke continued his words. "How'd that night go with Laura?"

Solomon's pride glowed in his face. "How do you think?"

The men laughed. "She came to office this morning a completely new woman!"

"Well, gentlemen!" Soloman started, throwing his arms around their shoulders and leading them back to the woodpile. "I've got my methods, let's say."

"But Laura's never had that kind of reaction after a night with a guy," the taller man said.

"What exactly did you do?"

Solomon frowned. "...Clean her house."

They blinked.

"I needed the extra job, alright?" he said defensively. He then picked up a plank of wood, turned around without worrying about hitting the others (fortunately, they dodged anyway), and marched off to the construction again without another word.

----

Laura Bells